Eventual
by starrysummernights
Summary: John has a hard time coping after Sherlock's death. He realizes that everything was eventual...even his own death.
1. Chapter 1

**I am not sure why I wrote this. It just came to me and I had to write it. I'm not sure if I will continue it or let it stand alone since I have already done a reunion fic.**

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John stared at the gun in his lap.

It had been a long road to this moment. It took two and ½ years before John caressed his temple with the barrel of his gun. Cool metal, the smell of gunpowder and the agent he used to clean it- sharp, familiar sensations. The trigger, he had never noticed, was shaped like a comma. The comma in the sentence:

Sherlock died, John followed.

He began this journey with a look. A look across the lab at St. Bart's, his eyes connecting with a tall, boyishly handsome young man and John Watson's life had never been the same.

He began this journey with a look. The day after Sherlock's funeral, he had stared for hours at the drawer in which his gun lay, knowing his life would never be the same.

John's life had changed. He had revolved around Sherlock Holmes- his heart, his mind, his very being was Sherlock's.

John's life had changed. He revolved around the knowledge of where the gun was- his heart longed for it, his mind was obsessed with it, his very being craved the end it could guarantee.

His fingers had reached for Sherlock, Sherlock's eyes had gleamed, and they had kissed.

His fingers reached for the gun, it's cool metal gleamed, and the barrel of the gun slid between his lips, but John did not pull the trigger, did not add the comma, did not finish the sentence.

He whispered his greatest wish, pleading, tears flowing so thick and fast he was almost blind, "_Don't_…_be_…_dead_. Sherlock! Please, do this for me!"

There was silence, there was always silence, and John wanted to scream, give vent to the horrible, choking emotions that rioted through his body and stole the air from his lungs, made his heart hurt, his head throb.

He buried his face in his hands and wished he had never met Sherlock, wished he had never met the brilliant consulting detective- the only one in the world- the only one in the world for John. There would never be another.

He cradled the gun in his hands and wished he had never loved Sherlock Holmes and never known what it was like to be loved by the amazing man.

But John did know, and he could not wish away his memories.

Memories of small looks, gentle touches, the slow build-up of tension and feelings that one night exploded in a passion that had wrecked John and reduced Sherlock to incoherencies. It was in that moment Sherlock told John he loved him. John had already told him countless times.

John had memories of small looks- his eyes caressing the contours of the gun-, gentle touches- taking it from the drawers and running his fingers over it, acquainting himself with every aspect of it-, the slow build-up of tension and feelings that he knew would one night result in his death. Sherlock had told John he loved him. John would never hear that again. When John said the words aloud there was only an answering silence.

One night, when he said the words, there would not be silence. The gun would retort.

Tonight, though, was not the night. It did not feel right. John remembered how the very air had vibrated with feeling the night he and Sherlock made love. They had known the time was right, and had taken advantage of that.

John would wait. He knew the end would come soon anyway. It was eventual, just as he and Sherlock had been eventual.

John stared at the gun in his lap and smiled, excited to see Sherlock again.


	2. Chapter 2

**I always meant to come back and write more to this little story but somehow the words never came. This past week has been especially hard for me because of the death of a family member of mine and today, a week after his death, the words just flowed for this chapter. I hope you enjoy reading this and I can promise that there will be a third and final chapter to this ficlet soon. Thanks for the love and support. As always, you guys rock out loud!**

**Enjoy :)**

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Sherlock Holmes knows John Watson.

He collected facts about John like other people collect stamps or coins or hideous unicorn figurines. And there were so _many_ interesting facets to acquire about John. Sherlock had spent the entire time they were together learning how John ticked, learning him inside and out, learning everything he could about him so one day, when John was no longer around, he would be able to remember everything with perfect clarity. He would be able to remember the way John's face looked when he laughed, the exact quality of his laugh versus his giggle, the way the light shone and caught in his greying blonde hair. He would be able to remember the way John took his tea, his favorite meal, his stance as he cooked in the kitchen, the way he walked and the way he ran, the precise positioning of his fingers as he held the newspaper, and the exact two fingers he used as he pecked away on his laptop. He would be able to remember the way John looked at him, first when they were friends, then later when they were lovers, and how these looks differed in intensity and love. He wanted to remember every touch of John's fingers against his skin, the brush of John's lips against his own, the way it felt to hold his hand, touch his face when it was rough with stubble and memorize the exact pattern of that stubble so when he closed his eyes, Sherlock could see it as clear as if he were living in that moment again.

Sherlock's goal was to know everything about John because there was always a possibility that he would lose him.

Sherlock didn't think he would be the cause of John's death. Yes, they risked their lives routinely in order to solve dangerous and exciting cases, but Sherlock hadn't thought that was what would end John's life.

No, Sherlock knew John Watson and he therefore knew that the greatest danger posed to John…was John.

Sherlock had known that first day as John looked about 221B Baker Street, leaning on his cane, that the ex-military man in front of him was suicidal. He possessed a gun, military issue that he'd smuggled out when he was discharged, and he kept it near him at all times. He didn't have it on his person that day but he had held it earlier, caressed it. If Sherlock had sniffed his fingers he could have deduced what gun it was and how recently he had held it, cleaned it, and contemplated his own suicide…but that seemed rude to do without asking. And Sherlock had refrained from asking.

Instead, he had distracted John- because if there was one thing Sherlock knew how to do well it was distraction. He cured John's limp, made him laugh, brought excitement into his life, and began his fact-gathering mission that very night.

John Watson was loyal.

John Watson was brave.

John Watson would kill someone for me.

At first, Sherlock only knew things a stranger would know. Height, weight, color of hair and eyes, general information about John Hamish Watson that anyone on the street or anyone interested enough could see.

Then, miraculously, he came to understand those things a friend knows. Sherlock hasn't had an excess of friends in his life and even _he_ is a bit surprised that John stays with him as he does. This is added onto Sherlock's fact list, though he doesn't truly understand the significance of this information until he learns another fact about John, his favorite fact of all:

John Watson loves him.

It's not enough time. From the moment he and John first kiss to the time Sherlock is standing on the rooftop of St. Bart's, staring down at John who is begging him…it's not enough time to know everything he wants to. There are still so many unanswered questions, so many things Sherlock wanted to experience with John and add the way he reacted to his facts.

And Sherlock knows, with a certainty bred of almost two years of fact-gathering about his favorite person in the world, he will probably never be given the chance to know more.

Sherlock cries, the first time in years he actually cries real tears, because he knows this could be the last time he will see John alive.

The greatest danger posed to John is himself.

He knows John will contemplate suicide after watching him fall. Mycroft, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson will try and save him, but Sherlock calculates their success as only minimal. John himself will have to strive to survive, and his track record in that department, when left to his own devices, is not stellar.

Sherlock knows, as he watches John leave the cemetery, that it is only a matter of time before John attempts to take his own life.

He only hopes he manages to return before it's too late.


	3. Chapter 3

**This is the most angst-filled story I have ever written. I'm sorry it's not as light as my others and if you, the reader, want to skip on to something lighter and fluffier, I totally understand that. This was just something that tugged at my mind and had to be written, and now I have a sweeping sense of relief that it's finished. I always felt that it wasn't completed but now I do.**

**If you ever feel like you're depressed and suicidal, there are wonderful resources available to you. Call someone or call a hotline or talk to a counselor. Never follow through with your plans. There are always other options. I do not in any way condone suicide nor do I intend to romanticize it. That is not the purpose of this story.**

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John woke and stretched in his bed, filled with a sense of purpose, a feeling of excitement in his gut.

Today was the day.

Today was the day, three years ago, that John's life changed forever. It's an anniversary John never misses, never forgets, and celebrates with flowers placed at Sherlock's grave. The air in his bedroom is hushed and calm, like the air right before a violent lightning storm strikes, and John knows:

Today _is_ the day.

He gets up, showers, dresses, and eats a nice breakfast, humming under his breath the entire time. He feels lighter than he has in months- no, in _years_. His life suddenly has purpose, which John thinks is rather ironic because he plans on ending his life in just a few short hours.

He goes to work and no one seems to notice, no one seems to put the pieces together, though they are there for anyone to see. There are even remarks made that,

"_John looks happy today!"_

"_Don't you have a big smile!"_

"_What're you so happy about, Watson_?"

There is the sort of inane drivel that people always say in passing and no one makes the connection that John is planning his own death for later that night.

When he gets home, he says hello to Mrs. Hudson, making polite small-talk and nothing he says tips his landlady off that something is amiss. John goes upstairs and makes dinner and a cup of tea, then sits and watches telly for a while, allowing himself to come down from the stress of the day.

Finally, he knows he's ready. He turns off the set and goes upstairs with deliberate steps, and sits on his bed, reaching for his gun. He has memorized the location and his fingers find the cool metal unerringly. He runs his hand over the gun.

He's ready.

"I love you." He whispers, as he starts to bring the cold barrel of the gun to his forehead….

Warm fingers, gentle and sure, circle his wrist and halt the gun's progress to it's eventual destination. Those same violinist's hands take the gun away from him and John hears the clip being popped, the chamber emptied, and then a warm presence beside him on the bed.

John keeps his eyes closed, aware of the fact that he's probably dead now, prepared to open his eyes and see Sherlock again.

"_John_."

John takes in a deep breath and opens his eyes.

He's not dead….but Sherlock's alive.

John's hands are shaking and his entire world is tilting on it's axis as he realizes that, yes, Sherlock is alive.

Sherlock's….alive.

He's been alive for years. All those years of pain and sadness…Sherlock had been alive.

"Sherlock?" John can feel hot fury rising up inside him and it's tinged with sadness and an overwhelming _hurt_- why would Sherlock have done this?

"John. I'm sorry."

John's swallowing because he feels as if he will vomit from all the conflicting emotions inside him, but then he's clutching Sherlock to him, grasping at the taller man and moaning when he realizes that he's actually _real_. He's kissing his face, his lips, his movements shaky and desperate, but it's ok because Sherlock's hands are just as unsteady, his eyes heavy with emotion and sadness.

"You're alive, you're alive, you're alive." John cannot stop repeating this phrase, over and over, between kisses, during kisses, when he buries his face against Sherlock's neck and inhales his familiar scene. His words lose strength each time he speaks them until he cannot understand what he's saying and he wants to brand them on his skin in some permanent way so he will finally comprehend that Sherlock's _alive_.

Sherlock's hands are everywhere, checking John's body, deducing him, reading everything that happened in the last three years in these heated sweeps of his palms that spark life back into John's body, even as his mind is still running to catch up, running to try and grasp that his love is back, was never really dead in the first place.

"Why?" John asks, pulling away only fractionally because he's still shaky and to be parted from Sherlock now is painful.

Sherlock starts to explain, even as he never stops kissing John, kissing him everywhere, his clever fingers revealing more and more of John's flesh until John stops him, unable to take anymore. Sherlock murmurs his explanation against John's skin and his words are searing, it hurts and burns and is somehow a balm to John's heart at the same time. There's the beginning of healing as Sherlock's words wash over him, but John knows this isn't all.

He knows they'll fight later. Later, John will hurl all the hateful words he can think of at Sherlock and he knows Sherlock will take it, allow John to spend his anger, and will apologize again and again. Finally, after maybe the fifth or sixth time Sherlock says it, John will actually forgive him but the hurt, the anger, the sadness, will remain for months into the future.

It will eventually fade, though. There will come a time in the future, when John can look back at this time without feeling such hot, raw emotions. Today, however, is not that day.

John won't tell Sherlock he loves him again until a few days later. He does so, even though the words feel forced, because John knows they're still _true_ and he speaks them from the bottom of his heart. He never wants another day to pass in which he does not hear Sherlock say the words back to him. He can swallow his hurt pride enough to tell Sherlock he loves him, even after what he's gone through because John knows he won't always feel this way. One day, the words will flow off his tongue as easily as they used to and there won't be a lingering sadness.

Nothing is as it once was. There are tense silences, brooding looks, and Sherlock hides John's gun when he thinks John won't notice. There are angry rows, apologetic kisses, embraces that last for hours, and more tears shed than either man will ever admit to. But their feet are now set on this path, this path of healing and _love_, and they'll walk it just as they always do...

Together.


End file.
